Perennials
by Pointy Objects
Summary: I am selfish. I am wrong. I am man, born of woman, and my sins are not only mine to bear. Prequel to 'Roses are Red'.
1. 1 month, 4 hours, 8 minutes

**Perennials**

Chapter 1: -1 month, 4 hours, 8 minutes

* * *

There have, until now, only been three times in my live that'd I've ever seen my wife on the verge of crying. She hated doing it, shedding tears, and she probably hated that I saw her so close to the brink, so many times.

The first was when we were sixteen. It was an average Thanksgiving weekend; no school, rain from the night before making the sidewalks and few patches of grass slick and shiny. A routine game of football came to a (literally) screeching halt, when Helga slid for a long pass, and crashed into the metal bleachers that the city donated to Gerald Field several years ago. Everyone expected her to shake it off and join the game, but when she rolled to her stomach, and started clutching the ground, we all knew something was wrong. She'd broken her leg pretty badly, and probably would have refused any help at all, had everyone not forced it on her. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was back on her back, pressing her bright red fists over her eyes, and clenching her jaw.

She didn't shed a tear, at least not one that I saw, but I knew she wanted to.

The next time was some years later. Helga returned to town, during college, telling everyone at school that she was taking time off, but hiding the reality and weight of her situation. She, as well as Miriam, Olga, and a few other old neighbors, were fully aware that Bob was terminal. The doctors gave him six weeks to survive with the cancer that began in his lungs, and quickly migrated to his liver. Despite the fact that he survived a full two weeks after the allotted time, his death was hard and heavy as hail on the family. Miriam and Olga wept openly, and had many comforters. Helga was quiet, more so than usual, and the few people who bothered to ask how she was, only to receive a soft and sad nod, were sure to walk away, discussing the late Big Bob Pataki's 'cold as ice' younger daughter. As I left the funeral home, I noticed a person standing under the dark awning of one of the funeral home's windows, protecting themselves from the merciless rain that was coming down outside. Instead of customary black, Helga was in a heavy-looking, dark-green velvet dress that fell just past her knees.

"Bob hated wearing black." she said, and I could tell she was either congested or emotional. I assumed the both, because that's how I liked to envision Helga. Fragile enough that I could still break through her walls, but strong enough to still give me a run for my money.

"He said it was bad luck. He wouldn't even wear black shoes when he was having an After Christmas sale." she said, and I could tell she wanted to smile.

When she came forward and enveloped me in a hug, I heard her echo the words of her mother and sister from inside, "Thanks for coming." Her words were anything but special; I heard them so many times that evening, that they barely fazed me. What kept the two of us huddled under that dark awning, while sheets of rain assaulted the parking lot, was the slight tremble that came from Helga's lithe body, I could not fathom how hard Helga was trying to keep her tears at bay, until we parted, and for the first time, I saw her struggle to compose herself, before stepping back into the building.

The last time, before now, of course, is my favorite.

The moment transpired over the course of no more than 30 seconds, but the memory itself lasted for much longer. I was brought of out sleep by something soft and warm against my face. My first inclination was to turn away from it; after all, the day prior was exhausting and long, and much as I enjoyed my evening, I was tired. Nevertheless, I took the hand that was stroking my face, and kissed the palm. Helga laughed loudly in the dark room, and pulled her hand away.

"Why, Mrs. Shortman, may I ask, are you awake at this ungodly hour?" I asked her, smiling when she absentmindedly rubbed the band of her ring when I uttered her new last name.

"Just thinking…" she sighed, bringing her hand back to my stubbly chin. "Thank you." she said, quietly.

"For what?"

She sighed again. I could tell she was falling back asleep. Helga was most beautiful on two occasions, right before she fell asleep, and immediately after waking up.

"For picking me."

* * *

Now, I can hardly say that Helga's fight against the overwhelming urge to either scream or cry is anything close to comforting.

I've prided myself on being Helga's best friend and husband, but also her strength. Few people have seen Helga without her wall, and exterior, and despite the fact that she didn't let me see them for quite a while, that part of her, what she revealed to me was always something I cherished.

And, somehow, worse, even than the physical pain of a shattered right leg, and the emotional pain of losing her father, I managed to hurt her.

When she retreated from the kitchen, after I told her, I surmised (especially with her temperament), that she was relieving our spacious closet of all my clothes, to deposit them in the bathtub, to pour bleach over them. When I found her, in our bedroom, the lights were out and she was curled up in the bed, closest to the side that was pushed again the back wall of the room. I slowly changed out of my work clothes, and joined her. Had I not seen her when I first entered the room, I wouldn't have known she was there at all. She managed to create so much space between us, that even when I pretended to roll over, she was still out of reach.

"Helga-" I was cut off when a sound erupted from her, raspy and garbled at the same time, leaving a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. The light from our alarm clock illuminated her hand closest to me; it was clutched in a tight fist around a small pillow, the red from the clock making her harm glow eerily.

"Please talk to me." I said it so quietly; I could barely hear it myself. She turned her face toward me, but her body stayed facing the other direction. I wanted to take a minute to marvel at the complexities of her body; the ever graceful curve where her hips became her legs, the nape of her neck that always called to me. But, I inflicted enough pain for one day; I thought it best to keep my distance for the time being.

She sniffed once and her fist relaxed. She slid her hand over the sheets and found mine in the darkness, with little trouble. Reflexively, my fingers sought to grip hers, but that was not her intent. She retraced her path, bringing my hand to her face. I cupped her tiny chin, and she released my hand once it was set on the side of her face, just underneath her eyes. My hand froze where it was, when I realized what she was doing.

Cooling my hand, and obviously Helga's face, were her tears. Tears I put there, because I was selfish and heartless and too stressed out to see how much I was hurting her.

"Never again, okay?" she asked, her voice tight and hoarse. It was more a plea than a suggestion. I nodded, too taken aback to answer with words. I reached to pull her closer, and I could feel the split-second of hesitation, knowing that, not a week prior, another woman was in these same arms.

We fell into peaceful sleep, neither of us waking until the sun was well in the sky the next day. When we did wake, Helga as beautiful as ever, save for red eyes and a pink nose, her eyes held the same plea as before. 'Never again, okay?' she asked silently for the rest of the day. I hoped that my affirmation, silent as hers, was enough.

It wasn't.

Never again, lasted exactly four weeks.

* * *

_A/N: Hi! How is everyone? Good, good. Anyway, I was thinking a lot about Roses (I'm writing an original version…with my own characters, so it's on my mind a lot) and I was wondering what Arnold would have been thinking during the whol ordeal...at leat for the parts where we_ wasn't _dead. If you haven't read Roses, this will be hard to get. Anyway, this starts a bit before Roses did (obviously…Arnold is still alive). It's not going to be terribly long, I'll admit. Three to four chapters, at the most._

_Let me know what you think! Oh, and quick question: has anyone seen The Princess and The Frog? I saw it last night with my sister, and I loved it! It was amazing!!! Okay, I'm off. Actually, I'm not. I'm sick in bed with a cold, sore throat and headache. So…I'll be here. Bye!!!_

_-Pointy_Objects_


	2. 0

**A/N: I guess I didn't explain what I meant by "prequel" for Roses. Roses are Red began with Helga, at work, having already killed and buried Arnold. This story begins before ALL of that. Which means, yes, Arnold has cheated, but she hasn't 'killed' him yet. Get it? Are we all on the same page? Cool. Carry on. **

**Perennials**

**By: Pointy Objects**

* * *

I put my key in the keyhole to my home, but I can't bear to open the door. The cranberry-red Camry is in the driveway, telling me that my wife is home, and probably not happy with me. Not that she has any reason to be.

I wish I could say that the biggest mistake of my life was going over to Alexis' seedy apartment two nights ago. But, it's not. My biggest mistake was going to my class reunion, even though Helga couldn't make it and didn't want to go anyway. It was, after seeing Alexis and after too much wine, getting her phone number and giving mine. That was my biggest mistake. In turn, it only led to bigger mistakes.

After I enter the house, I realize how empty and quiet it seems. After Helga and I bought the house, a mere year and a half after we were married, it was so full of life. Helga was always a hard working woman. She held her own job, and thrived on her career. At the same time, she found such joy in running a home-our home- that you could hardly believe that she came from a home where a well cooked meal was so few and far between. Now, our home was silent, unless one of us was shouting at the other.

"Helga?" I call half-heartedly. I need to talk to her. Yes, I was in the wrong, but I didn't like it when she went without speaking to me. Helga was never known for keeping silent, so whenever she refused to argue with me, it felt like she gave up. And even though I wasn't do much to show my devotion to her, I had to let her know that I was trying, if nothing else.

"Hey.." I said, when I found her in our bedroom, sitting on the plush, King-sized bed. Her feet were up, she looked as if she were trying to relax, but to no avail. She looked up at me and I saw something hidden behind her gaze. A sort of morbid expectation, with a glimmer of hope. The same hope I still had for our marriage.

"Hi…" she breathed. She looked tired. And I knew it was my fault. Before I could begin speaking (not that I knew what I was going to say. Helga was far better with words than I) she began asking a question. "Are we…are we going to get better? Are things going to change?"

I was taken aback by this. I wanted to tell her that, Yes, things would most certainly change. That I was purging myself of any and every urge to seek relief from my stress in women outside of our marriage. But, for some reason, my answer didn't come early enough, even though I practiced it all day.

She began shaking her head, and moving to get off the bed, bringing her small hand to her flat stomach as she did. "This is exactly what I mean, Arnold. How can I trust you? How can I ever trust you?!" she shouted.

"Yes, okay? Yes, I'm trying! But, it's not easy, I just…I just need to-"

"I don't want to hear it! It's too late for 'trying'; you need to step up _now_!"

I wanted to pull my hair out. I wanted to pull my hair out, because were fighting, again, and she was angry, again, and she was right. Again. "I told you, I'm trying! This isn't easy for me-"

"And you think this is easy for _me_?!" she retorted. "Knowing that…that my husband doesn't love me anymore?" She asked, her question tinged with sadness. "You couldn't _imagine _what I'm feeling." she said, walking back to the bed. She sat down, looking defeated. I didn't want her to give up on me, but I could tell that part of her already did.

Walking over, I knelt in front of her, like I did so many years ago, when I asked her to become my wife. I reached fro her hands, sad as the trembled on her lap. I wanted to tell her that she was wrong; that I never stopped loving her, and that I never would. Instead, my phone cried out from the living room where I left it, and I was certain that it was my boss, calling to ask why I left work early that day. I wasn't getting anything accomplished at work, lately. My mood was too sour, and I asked to stay and work at the home offices for a while, too devastated to leave Helga for very long. That. And I wasn't sure how much I trusted myself when away from her.

I sent her a pleading look, and exited the room, to search for my phone. When I found it, it was indeed my boss, calling to chew me out for another day of work, where little was accomplished. I tried to explain, that my family was going through some things, but I'd be in full swing as soon as I could. He didn't take to lightly my rushed tone, but I had the feeling that there were too many unspoken words between Helga and myself, from her end and from mine. I hung up without hesitation, shoving the thin, black phone into my pocket, and walked back into our bedroom. Already I was feeling optimistic.

My heart, however, sank at the sight in front of me. Instead of atop our bed, Helga was on the floor, laying on her stomach, with her face toward the door. One arm was out in front of her, and the other was wrapped around her midsection.

I tried not to panic, knowing that I shouldn't have tried to move her. However, my first thought was that my wife, and reason for living was hurt, inexplicably, and I had to do something. Moving toward her, I rolled her onto her back, and moved her arm, so that it was no longer bent at an uncomfortable angle. The hem of her shirt rose up, and I tried to move her to pull it back down. Her normally flat stomach was slightly rounded, just above her pants, but I didn't may it much mind. I checked her breathing and pulse; both seemed normal. Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I dialed Emergency Services and waited two agonizing rings for someone to respond.

"Hello, Emergency Services."

I found myself breathing harder, now. "My wife has fainted. I don't know what happened."

"Sir, is she breathing?" the woman on the end seemed to speak with more urgency now.

"Yes, and her pulse is…normal. I don't know what happened." I repeated. "I left the room, and came back, and she was on the floor."

"Sir, I need you to calm down. I need you to refrain from moving her, okay?" I blinked as she went on. "Check, gently, for any abrasions, or injuries. I'm sending an ambulance to your address. Is it still 202 Rosedale Rd?" she asked.

"Yes." I breathed. Running a hand across my forehead, I almost didn't noticed Helga's reddened hand twitching. Dropping the phone on the ground, the dispatcher's voice fading away, I watched as her arm, still across her stomach, began to move. She looked slightly pained, and I helped her to sit up.

"What happened?" she asked, quietly.

"Don't try to move. An ambulance is coming; you fainted."

"Why?" she asked, moving toward the bed, against my warning.

What could I say? I didn't know why Helga fainted? Exhaustion? She said she took the day off to go to the doctor's office. Was it work? Was it heartbreak?

"We were arguing before, and I left the room." She began struggling to bring herself up from the floor. Even with my hand on her arm, she broke free, and advanced toward the door. "Where are you going?"

"I have to leave." she said, walking slowly to the door, and into the hallway. "I have to leave for a while."

I fumbled after her, obviously. Just a minute ago, I was feeling like I could be a better man, live up to my vows, and most of all the things I promised to Helga. But, now, everything was falling apart. Exactly what I didn't want to happen, suddenly was. She was giving up, albeit slowly.

She was halfway out the door, when I caught up to her. I couldn't think of anything to say. I could barely even think at all. "Listen-"

"No!" she said, somewhere between a cry and a shout. "If you're going to leave, then go! Don't lie, and don't pretend like you're going to be here for us!"

Us?

She started saying something to herself then, and I could hear cars passing by on the street.

"I can't do this alone…I can't do this alone…" she said, unfolding her fists over her stomach.

"You don't have to do anything alone!" I told her, shouting above the roar of traffic. "I'm right here; I'm not leaving you!"

It was then that I realized where Helga kept her hands. When I entered the house, and as we fought, and even after she fainted.

It was then that I noticed that it was not traffic or the buzz of nosy neighbors that was deafening me. It was the blare of sirens from the approaching ambulance. The ambulance I called.

It was then, that I also realized that Helga wasn't standing on the lush green lawn with me anymore. Her feet were on hard, black asphalt.

"Helga!"

* * *

_A/N: I hope I'm getting Arnold's voice right. I've never written him as an adult, just a kid, or a teenager._

_Man, I'm feeling sick. I'm going to steal the power cord for my laptop from my sister and write some of The Compromise. Bye, everyone._

_-Pointy_O_


	3. 3 hours, 4 minutes, 51 seconds

**Perennials**

Chapter 3: 3 hours, 4 minutes, 51 seconds

* * *

Standing gave me a headache.

Pacing made my feet hurt.

Crying made it too hard to breathe.

So I sat. In the cold white waiting room. There I sat and I thought. And I found my thoughts to be the same thing; the constant thought reverberated in my head and pushed everything else out:

'This is my fault, this is my fault, this is all my fault…'

No, I did not push my wife in front of the ambulance. I did not make her go outside. If anything, I wanted to keep her in the house. But, I did cheat on her. I did cause her undue amounts of pain, or at least enough that she couldn't find it in herself to tell me that she was pregnant without fear of further rejection.

I did break her heart.

Sitting, up, I tried rubbing my hands up and down my arms to warm myself, because suddenly I was feeling very cold. Three hours ago, we entered the hospital's Emergency Room, and no one came out to tell me how my wife was. I was hysterical at first; I demanded that someone tell me something about her condition. Was she breathing? Was she alive? How was the baby? But no one had any answers for me, and everything was moving so fast.

I tried wandering for a while, trusting the doctors to do what they knew would be best for her, without me berating them. Unfortunately, I didn't pay attention to where I was going, and in addition to running into a few people, I also found myself in the prenatal unit. I watched, from behind a thick pane of glass, ten or so tiny newborns, in their individual beds. Some were writhing, one or two happened to be crying, and some were sleeping peacefully. I can't remember how long I stood there watching them, but before long, a family arrived next to me. It was a small family, just a man, probably my age, and two older individuals, more than likely his parents.

The man stood nearest to me, looking excited and joyful as he stared through the window at the newborns. I didn't need two guesses to know that one of those lives in there was his child. Before I knew it, I captured his attention.

"Which one is yours?" he asked, still smiling. I smile din return, noticing his slightly graying hairline. Maybe this wasn't his first.

"Oh, I'm not…they're…my wife is pregnant. We're not-" I tried to explain, even though I had no explanation ready. He interrupted and patted me on my back.

"Congratulations, man. Trust me, it's like nothing you've ever felt before." he said.

"Is this your…your first child?" I asked. I wanted so badly to share that same excitement.

"Yup." he said, simply. "We've been trying, for years. That little one back there," he said, pointing to a cooing baby wrapped in pink, furthest from the window. "She's our little miracle. Little Olivia." he said.

Suddenly my face felt very hot; hearing this complete stranger go on and on about the joy he had; it was glaringly obvious that he loved his wife. He wouldn't have done what I did. He wouldn't have hurt her as I did Helga. I congratulated him, hiding my face as I made my way to the nearest stairwell.

Falling against the nearest wall, I found myself, for the hundredth time that day, crying, almost hysterically, praying that if Helga and our child made it through, I'd be true to the end.

We'd have our own little miracle. Our very own Olivia.

* * *

_A/N: That was wicked short. I'm not sure why. I was writing The Compromise (it'll be out, soon, I promise), but this was calling to me as well. I have class in exactly…21 minutes, and it's late (7 PM-9:45PM) so, I might drift from the lesson a bit and finish up Compromise. I'm such a bad student…BYE!_

_-Pointy_O_


	4. 1 month, 17 hours, 5 minutes, 8 seconds

A/N: I wish I could include one of my happier author's notes for this chapter, but I'm…well, to be honest I'm not happy. My very, very dear friend died today. She was known by a lot of names, but for me, she was just 'Lady V'. And, per usual, writing is about the only thing that is lifting my spirits (and the half carton if ice cream I just ate. That helped a little too.) --

**Okay, I guess I can be a little bit funny. **

**_"Ich liebe dich, Freundin von mir…" _**

**Perennials**

**By: Pointy Objects**

Ringing my hands, I pace the hospital hallway, for the fourth time. There was no other way I could think to relieve my stress, aside from punching a wall (which didn't seem like a good idea), so I decided to walk. It seems like I've been spending more time than ever in this hospital. I was given an extended leave from work (with pay, under the gracious nature of my usually stern boss), so if I wasn't here, in the hospital, I was at home, alone. And that was proving to be a more depressing place than the hospital.

I tried to keep everything in the house as Helga left it. The books that she read before going to sleep each night were still stacked neatly on her side of the bed. I didn't touch her toothpaste, or toothbrush, hoping that, sooner rather than later, she'd be back. For a week or two, I even refused to throw away the leftover dinners she made, but a kitchen that smelled of rotting cabbage urged me to do otherwise. I knew better than to think that Helga could disappear from my life.

I wouldn't let her.

Which is why, on this unusually gray and gloomy day, when I was already on my way to the hospital, when Dr. Harrison called and asked me to come over immediately, I was concerned. He knew that I'd be there; he usually had to wake me up at the end of visiting hours to let me know that the hospital security would throw me out of they knew I was trying to stay so late. He had a rushed sort of excitement in his voice, but couldn't figure out why. I like to think he would have told me if Helga was awake; that doesn't seem like information that you would keep from a desperate man (something I clearly am these days). Nevertheless, upon arriving, I've had to wait exactly 14 minutes to see him, confirming that Helga was, more than likely, not awake. I was immediately disappointed. I was so looking forward to wheeling her out of this horrible place, taking her home, and reaffirming everything I couldn't before the accident. That I loved her and I would love our child, and that, if nothing else, she could trust me from here on out, to never hurt her again.

"Mr. Shortman?"

I turned and nearly embraced Dr. Harrison, but caught myself in a moment and shook his outstretched hand. He looked excited, but a little confused. No, I told myself. She's not up. Not yet.

"Is something wrong?" I asked. I was so nervous, I almost started cracking my knuckles. It was a habit Helga had when she was nervous; I told her time and time again, that it would bring about an early onset of rheumatoid arthritis, but she never stopped. She said cracking her knuckles kept her from cracking the skulls of people around her when she was upset.

"Something has…happened, Mr. Shortman. I think you need to see this for yourself." he said, placing a gentle hand on my back and leading me to down the hallway, in the opposite direction of the elevator that would take me upstairs to Helga's room.

"We've been watching your wife very closely, Arnold. Very closely. All of her vital signs are normal; healthy heart, good circulation, normal breathing…" he said, going on and on about all the things I already knew about Helga. Even before our accident, she was as healthy as any other person. I was scared that something would happen to her, and the baby as well, but nothing did. As far as I knew, they were both fine.

"…last night, though, one of our nurses made a discovery, rather accidentally, really. It was…well, nothing short of amazing. I thought you would want to know."

I blinked. Something 'amazing' happened? This almost made me want to push the doctor away from me. I did not want my wife, the most important person in the world to me, used for some surgeon's science experiment. The only 'amazing' thing that could happen thus far, would be for Helga to wake up and forgive me.

"What happened?" I asked, keeping my ire under control. "And why was Helga moved from her room?"

Dr. Harrison didn't reply, but opened one of the standard hospital room doors (white, like everything else in this place) and let me step in first. Helga looked the same as she did everyday that I visited her, although I know that she's changed greatly over the past month that she's been here. Her hair and nails are a little longer. One of her hands, her right, is palm up on top of her white sheets. Her skin is brighter, unmarred by the little makeup she used to wear to work, or when we'd go out. It's a shame, really. I can't remember her looking more beautiful, but in her current state, I can't help but continue to blame myself.

Her appearance isn't the only thing that's changed. Her new hospital bed is higher than her old one. The IV that's attached to her arm is still on her left, but it is now accompanied by more machines; ones that I've never seen, and cannot provide a purpose for. There are two small, circular disks over her temples that go to one of the gargantuan machines, and another tube disappears under her blankets.

"What's happened?" I ask, quietly. She really _does _look like a science experiment. "What did you do to her?!"

"Arnold, let me explain. Last night, one of our nurses was checking rooms. She noticed that Helga…your wife…" Dr. Harrison began, losing his words. Maybe it was the fist I was making that caused him to stammer.

"…your wife _moved_."

I stood staring at him. That's impossible. I had to tell myself that it was impossible for a person, one month into a severe coma to _move_. People in comas don't _move_.

"That's not possible." I told him, as if I were the doctor, and he was the dumbfounded husband of a woman who apparently moved despite her coma.

"That's what I thought. Besides, Carolyn, the nurse, is somewhat up there in age. She was working a late shift. We all thought she was just seeing things.

"But, when I came in this morning, something happened. Watch." He said, advancing to the bed, and motioning towards Helga's upturned palm. "Give me your hand." he said, holding out his own.

I didn't know what he was planning, but I wanted to believe him. He took my hand, and put it over Helga's palm.

Nothing happened.

"Dr Harrison-"

"Just watch." he said, letting go of my hand, and letting it fall to my side. Removing a bottle of water from his coat pocket, he unscrewed the top , and held it over Helga's palm. The line of water moistened the sheets under her hand and spilled onto the immaculate white floors. I briefly considered taking Helga out of the care of such a…delusional man. I mean, I wanted Helga to wake up more than anything, but I didn't see what he was trying to accomplish by pouring water over my wife.

Just when I thought about asking him about his strange behavior something amazing did happen. Very slowly, I watched as the long, lithe fingers of my wife, beginning with her pinky finger, curl and make a loose fist. The hand, seeming to have a mind of its own, trembled slightly to stay that way, before slowly releasing itself a few seconds later.

Dr. Harrison was smiling wildly, but I probably looked like I'd seen a ghost. She _moved_. Helga _moved_. I didn't know what this meant for her recovery, but it gave me hope.

"What…what does this-"

"Arnold, her brain…it's…she's thinking at an astounding pace. She's in more of a sleeping state, than a coma. We thought it was an isolated incident, but she has the same response each time. And, as always, the baby is perfectly fine.

"I can't say for sure what this means for her. She could wake up tomorrow, or two days from now, or two years from now. But, we'll be keeping a very close eye on her."

I couldn't say anything at this point. I just started at my wife, at her wet, outstretched hand and peaceful face. What was going on in her head? If she was really dreaming, what was she dreaming about? Did she know what I did to her? Did she remember what happened? Did she dream about our baby, the same way I did every night?

I wasn't sure when Dr. Harrison left, or when I fell to my knees and took Helga's miraculous hand into mine. I didn't cry; I was too hopeful to weep today. So much was happening, most of it good. I just had to have faith that it would continue.

"We're right here, Helga." I whispered into the cold, darkening room. Outside rain pelted the roof and glass window and made shadows of the sky. "We're all waiting for you."

* * *

_Wow. Okay, I feel a little bit better. I expected this to take a lot longer to get through (I had to pause when a friend of mine called to chat and asked why I sounded so sad), but that's just what writing does for me. It's soothing. Sorry if this was short. I think all the installments of this story will be short. Helga's in 'Roses are Red' were long because she was going through A LOT. These are more 'glimpses' into Arnold's struggle; the really pivotal things that 'Roses' didn't include._

_Man, I've been throwing too many pity parties for myself with my writing. 'Say' was such a pity party…I almost thought of taking it down, or at least getting rid of the author's note. I'm a sap, what can I say? Hope you enjoyed this. And, in advance, thank you._

_Later days,_

_Antoinette_


	5. 7 Months, 13 Days, 4 Hours, 7 Minutes

**A/N: Yikes. I didn't realize I haven't touched this since May. Let's see if I can crank this out before November 15****th**** ends. Your beloved PointyObjects is 23 today. *faints***

Disclaimer: Me no owning. C. Bartlett no suing.

Perrenials

Chapter 5: 7 Months, 13 Days, 4 Hours, 7 Minutes

* * *

_"It's not that simple. Her brain injury wasn't serious, but there are other things to consider. We'd have to monitor her very closely to make sure her body doesn't go into shock. It's a very risky procedure. We have to proceed with far more caution than normal."_

That's what Dr. Harrison told me when I asked if I could lend a hand in the birth of my own child. While nearly every father on the planet is able to don a customary blue gown, glove, and cap, and watch their child enter the world, I'm sitting outside of the hospital room in my brown and blue plaid coat that Helga got me for our last anniversary. Part of me wanted to storm in, but I knew that would only end badly. Dr. Harrison was doing everything he could, which was a lot more than most doctors would. When other experts threw in their two cents, advising me to abandon my wife and unborn child. Some even wanted to analyze me for mental disorders. But, and this is something I couldn't necessarily claim a year ago, I was going to be loyal to Helga until the end. I would be as loyal to her as she always was to me.

Periodically a nurse or someone would walk out of the room and give me a status report. They were never too detailed; I wondered if Dr. Harrison was trying to keep me or himself calm. He mentioned that he'd never assisted in birthing a child to an unconscious mother. After Helga's stomach acids were neutralized, the IV attached, and the proper amount of anesthetics and medications administered, all I could do was wait.

It reminded me of the days when Helga and I would skip work together and lay around the house. We'd wake late, make a big breakfast, watch Court TV. But at some point in the day, Helga would get restless. She'd want to go bicycling, or jogging, or go to the hardware store (her least favorite place after one too many trips there with Bob) and buy plywood, so we could repair the deck. She couldn't sit still for too long, and it always perplexed me how she could tire of being seated or rested and need to move around.

I was feeling more or less the same. I wanted to, after Olivia was born, take them both home, stopping every few minutes to admire the town that managed to change in the 7 moths that they were not there. Once home, I wanted to show of everything: the bathroom I cleaned myself, the deck I finished so that Olivia would have somewhere to play, the sprigs of lavender that Helga left by our bed, that I never moved. I was restless.

Just as my legs began to lift, two nurses came out looking tense and excited. Almost in unison, they declared, "Dr. Harrison says you can come in." I knew they wanted to "escort" me in, but my first thought was to rush past them. I could barely function outside of my concern for Helga, and our child.

Much to my dismay, when I entered, there wasn't a friendly orderly holding out my newborn child to me. Two doctors aside from Dr. Harrison stood nearby, taking notes, and speaking in hushed tones, while an assistant of some kind kept Helga's head cool with a white cloth and repeatedly checked the screen on one of the machines she was hooked up to.

"Arnold." Dr. Harrison said jovially as I approached. "I thought you'd want to see how everything was going. Everything is proceeding excellently. Her stats are normal, no infections, shock…I couldn't have planned it better.

"And Olivia?' I asked.

"Well, she's turned the wrong way, which isn't a problem, but even if Helga were conscious, a cesarean would probably be the safest way to go. If you'd like, you can step right over here, and…" he said, kindly ushering the assistant away, and handing me a damp cool cloth. Nervously, I took up post where the assistant once sat, and stared lovingly at Helga.

Her eyelids were shut, per usual, her breathing even and strong, her head tilted to one side, just a little. As Dr. Harrison and his fellow physicians talked their way through the surgery, I tried to block them out. How could Helga stay asleep, with such a flurry of life around her; doctors, nurses, me, our child….yet she looked as calm and peaceful as if nothing were happening at all.

A few months ago, when I found out that Helga's state could last for many more months, I had to battle the stirrings of anger at her. Yes, I betrayed her, but this was a punishment, plain and simple. I had to live my life without so much as her daily presence. My frustrations needed to be manifested, and it wasn't until I thought about it, that I realized that I could not be angry at Helga. If she could be here, truly here, she would.

"Cauterizing the veins…nice work…removing fluids…" a bearded man said from behind a blue curtain that separated Helga's swollen belly from my view. I appreciated that he talked to her like she was there. It made me feel like she was. Suddenly, a hush filled the room. All the physicians grew silent against the whir of the machines surrounding us.

I waited for something to happen. I didn't know what to expect…did something go wrong? I stole a glance at Helga, hoping to see some sign, some distortion of her face, as a clue as to what was going on. She revealed nothing. She was always good at hiding.

A shrill cry filled the air and my head turned so quickly, I thought it'd snap off. The sound was too distinct: delicate and wild at the same time, breathless and tired, and new and bold.

I tried to watch through blurred eyes as the doctors completed their work, and attempted to check her vital signs. Hers. She was here.

I turned back to Helga, no longer caring if any of the occupants of the room saw me crying openly. My hands found one of Helga's, and I leaned in close and rested her head on my shoulder.

"You did it, Helga. She's here."

A few hours later I sat in Helga's room, my chair pushed so close to her bed that I accidentally hit the nurse's call button a few times. It was well after visiting hours, but I didn't care. Since the moment Dr. Harrison gave Olivia over to me, wrapped tightly in a soft, baby pink blanket, she hadn't left my side. I presented her to her mother, and with spastic arm movements, she greeted her. I was ecstatic. She was the perfect blend of Helga and I. She had her mother's nose, but my ears. Olivia opened her eyes once; little bright green slits gazed up and then quickly shut.

It took a few minutes, but I managed to adjust the angle of Helga's bed so that she was sitting up slightly. Moving one shoulder close to me, and bending her arms, I made a makeshift cradle. Gently, and cautiously, I lifted Olivia into her mother's arms and nestled her under her chin. After being in the same position for so long, she squirmed when she had to move, and her tiny brow furrowed. She had her mother's scowl. After a minute or two, she rested, and breathed evenly. I brought Helga's hand to her daughter's back, showing her how to hold her.

Maybe it was the adrenaline in my system, or the sheer joy of having a living, breathing representation of myself and Helga, but I could almost feel Helga's hand quiver at holding her child. Our child.

* * *

_Stupid computer..turned itself off, and now this one will be November 16th. Oh well! I did it! Two updates in 24 hours! Go me!_

_My November 15th updates never fail...almost. :D_

_PointyObjects_


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